Getting to be a Bad Habit
by Alipeeps
Summary: A bit of a challenge fic.. it's a Shep whumper, but of course, involving a nasty leg wound, scissors and Shep's pants! Now including epilogue Complete!
1. Chapter 1

_Okay this is a fic that started from a random discussion about Shep whumpage and what we'd like to see in Season 3… and the very popular suggestion of a leg wound necessitating Carson's cutting off Sheppard's pants (or trousers for those of us in the UK!) _

_Here is my take on the idea – warning for pretty graphic description of injuries towards the end of the chapter!_

_Please do review and let me know what you think – further chapters to follow.. and the aforementioned surgical removal of the pants :)

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Saving Rodney McKay's life was getting to be a bad habit for John Sheppard.

He sometimes wondered how the man managed to get himself into such trouble on such a regular basis.. and how come it was always worked out that it was _he_ who ended up taking the brunt of the damage, and not Rodney himself!

He supposed it was partly due to Rodney's nature – particularly his habit of becoming so focused on one thing, usually the readings from his instruments, that he stopped paying attention to his surroundings – and partly to his own nature; his instinctive need to protect, his willingness to put himself in harm's way to save another.

There wasn't a lot he could do about the latter – his military training aside, it was simply a part of who he was – but he was starting to think he might have to have some serious words with Rodney about paying more attention when off-world. The Pegasus Galaxy was a dangerous place... and trouble could come from the most unexpected direction.

They'd come to this world for the usual reasons.. a mysterious energy signature picked up by the MALP. The chance of finding a ZPM was too good to pass up on – even if the lush, tropical jungle that surrounded the stargate made using the jumper impossible, even if the only way to track down the energy readings was to trek on foot through the heavy vegetation. Even McKay, for all his complaints about the necessity of physical exertion, was not willing to give up on the chance of finding a power source for Atlantis.

The planet was certainly beautiful – lush, tropical vegetation as far as the eye could see in every direction. Unfortunately, as far as the eye could see was not actually that far at all. The plant-life on this world had grown wild and free, a heavy tangle of trees and vines and plants of every conceivable type. The air was heated, thick with moisture and very possibly – as Rodney took pains to point out repeatedly – god only knew what kind of spores and microscopic life. Moving through the jungle was hard, hot, sweaty work and Sheppard's arms were aching before they'd gone more than half a kilometre from the gate.

It was gloomy amongst the soaring trees; what little sunlight reached them was filtered through the constantly shifting leaves of the canopy far above. The jungle around them was alive with noise – odd hooting and shrieking noises as animals called to each other all around them; the life signs detector stashed in Sheppard's tac vest was worse than useless in these conditions, picking up every creature that climbed, crawled or flew through the jungle. Later on John would kick himself for giving up on the LSD so easily – confusing though the readout had been, it might have given them just a moment's warning.. just a split second more time.

The noise from the wildlife was unsettling, startlingly loud at times, and constantly moving around them. MacKay's nerves showed in his constant chatter, his voice rising in pitch as he kept up a litany of complaints about the heat, the humidity, his allergies, the likelihood of being eaten by creature or creatures unknown. The atmosphere seemed to affect all of them; John was uncomfortably aware of Teyla's heightened alertness as she constantly surveyed the tangled foliage around them and he found himself frequently wiping his sweaty palms on his BDU pants and unconsciously tightening his grip a little on his P90. Ronon, perversely, seemed relaxed and at ease in the jungle and Sheppard was reminded of the years the Satedan had spent running from the wraith across world after world. Ronan was accustomed to the wilderness, in some ways felt more at home here in the jungle, confident in his finely-honed reflexes, in his own ability to deal with the dangers of an unforgiving environment.

The energy readings they were following were faint, fluctuating wildly, and McKay soon became entirely absorbed in his efforts to pinpoint the source, his focus so complete that he forgot his nerves, forgot everything but his self-appointed goal. Walking slightly ahead of the rest of the group, twisting this way and that as he swept the area for readings, Rodney was looking anywhere but where he was walking. After the third time the scientist stumbled in the heavy undergrowth, only Teyla's strong grip saving him from landing unceremoniously on his behind, Sheppard opened his mouth to warn McKay to at least look where he was going.

He never got chance to form the words.

In that very instant he found his hands clenching around the P90, unconsciously bringing the gun up to a position of readiness as his subconscious reacted instinctively to a sudden change in their surroundings; the jungle around them had fallen silent. The sudden pool of stillness was centred slightly ahead of him, around where McKay strode obliviously forward.

John reacted in an instant, moving forward before he'd even decided on an exact course of action. He was vaguely aware of Ronon tensing beside him, the tall warrior training his gun on the dense foliage ahead.

"McKay!"

The warning shout burst from his lips even as the tangled plant-life to Rodney's right seemed to explode outwards. Sheppard slammed into McKay, knocking him forwards, as out of the corner of his eye he caught a blur of movement, a glimpse of dark brown colour moving incredibly fast. A flare of bright red light illuminated the gloom, the sound of Ronon's gun discharging loud in the close confines of the jungle, and something heavy impacted the right side of his body, spinning him away from McKay, sending him staggering. His P90 was ripped from his grasp with enough force to snap the cord attaching it to his vest. It landed in the undergrowth with a muffled thud.

A low growling sound reached his ears as he shook his head groggily, momentarily stunned.

"Sheppard.."

Ronon's voce was low, cautious. You might say deliberately calm.

The growl rose to a hissing snarl and John looked up to see teeth. Great big goddamn teeth, _sharp_ teeth, and hard, flat eyes, cold and amber, focusing solely on him. It was big, about the size of a tiger, and covered in rough, coarse fur. It looked kinda like one of the big cats from back on earth but with a longer neck and a strangely elongated face, more like a horse or even a lizard than a cat. It was dark brown in colour with darker spots mottling the shoulders and neck. Its lips were pulled back in a snarl, revealing a mouth full of incisors, and it crouched low to the ground, muscles bunched beneath it as it snarled at its prey. Yep, prey. Sheppard had no illusions about where he stood in this creature's list of priorities.

Ronon's voice came softly from behind him. The creature hissed, the long neck swaying oddly as it shifted its attention briefly over John's shoulder before fixing back on its main objective.

"You're in my line of fire, Sheppard. I can't get a clean shot…"

John stood very, very still, doing his damnedest to not even breathe.

"Oww.. dammit!"

The creature's head whipped to one side with frightening speed and John cursed under his breath.

"Rodney!" he whispered fiercely, his eyes not leaving the animal as it swayed its head back and forth, its attention flitting now between himself and McKay, "Shut up!"

The scientist was pushing himself unsteadily to his hands and knees from where he'd fallen into the heavy undergrowth to John's right. "What the _hell_ was tha… ooohhh.."

McKay's voice trailed off suddenly, all colour draining from his face, as he looked up and found himself face to face with the snarling beast. The creature's eyes flicked from Rodney to John and back again but it was clear its attention was focusing now on McKay. Frozen on all fours, Rodney whimpered, "Sheppard?"

"Shut up and stay very, very still." The amber eyes shifted over to John at his low, tight words. For once, McKay did as he was told and shut up. For a moment the only sound in the jungle was the deep, guttural growl rumbling up from the belly of the predator. This was not a good situation. Not good at all.

The only thing keeping the creature from attacking was indecision. Crouched on all fours, McKay was less of a threat, made the more appealing prey, but Sheppard was closer and… the creature hissed, its head tilting to one side as it regarded John coldly. He barely breathed as the wide nostrils flared, testing the air, and Sheppard was suddenly aware of a dull ache in his side, the tickling sensation as something – blood – seeped into his t-shirt. He looked at the huge paws and saw blood on the long, razor-sharp claws. Shit. Damn thing tagged him first go around.

The smallest of sounds from behind Sheppard and the animal's attention shifted, its mouth opening in a snarl as it snapped its head to the right. John knew what Ronon and Teyla were doing; moving away from each other, presenting the creature with further targets to confuse it as they tried to manoeuvre to where they could get a clear shot at it without hitting John or Rodney. Sheppard also knew, as he saw the animal's muscles tense, that it wasn't going to work; they were out of time.

"Rodney geddown!"

With a lightening-fast movement, almost too quick for his eyes to follow, the predator whipped its long neck to the front and sprang forward. Sheppard tried to lunge to the left, drawing it's attention further away from McKay, but he was slow, far too slow. It slammed into him with a force that stole the air from his lungs, its momentum carrying him backwards off his feet. Grabbing handfuls of fur instinctively, he hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud and somehow - god only knows how - retained the presence of mind to roll with the motion, tucking his legs up and pushing against the creature with all his might, managing to lift its weight from his chest and use its own speed and power to roll it off him. The long claws raked down his arm as the animal scrabbled for purchase, its momentum tumbling it clear of Sheppard.

The blast from Ronon's gun sizzled in the air and the creature shrieked. The hit slowed it for only a second and, bleeding from its hindquarters, it again leapt after its prey. Winded and defenceless, John could only scream as powerful jaws clamped down on his left thigh. A bolt of burning heat shot past his chest and the animal howled in pain, shaking its head viciously as it worried at his leg. John's vision was greying, the roaring in his ears drowning out Teyla's cry.

"Ronon, no! You'll hit the Colonel!"

The sharp incisors dug deep into his flesh and there was a horrible sensation of pressure, pulling. A ragged scream was torn from his throat as the predator began to drag him through the undergrowth.

"For god's sake, _do_ something! It's killing him!" Rodney. Panic pushing his voice high and breathless.

Oh dear god it hurt.

The precise "phut, phut" of the P90 on single-shot mode. Teyla, taking the best shot she could – trying to hit only the creature as it slunk low to the ground, making John both its both prey and its cover. It growled and snarled as the bullets hit home but refused to drop, refused to release its prize. Fiery agony raced outwards from John's thigh, flooding through his entire body as the thing tore at his leg, pulling him sharply away from the pursuing attackers. He couldn't be sure if he screamed or not.

The animal's breath was hot on his flesh as it gripped him firmly in its mouth, dragging him bit by bit away from any chance of survival. He couldn't let it reach the trees. He was dead if it got him into the trees. His right arm felt numb, hard to move. He could feel blood wet on his skin where the creature's claws had torn through his flesh. He struggled to move his arm, fumbling clumsily for the holster on his right thigh.

It seemed an age before his managed to get his fingers around the grip of his 9mm.

With terrible effort John raised his arm, the gun pulling free of the holster. The creature ignored his weak movements, its attention focused entirely on those threatening to take its prey. He managed to raise his head enough to see what he was aiming at. The leg of his BDU pants was stained black with blood, the mouth clamped down on his limb wet and dark red with it. Blood, his blood. An amber eye regarded him coldly as he dredged up the strength to point the gun – pointed it right at that dead, flat eye.

The thing shrieked and writhed as he pulled the trigger, its eye exploding in a rain of blood and flesh and bone. Agony convulsed him as its jaws clamped tighter but he kept pulling the trigger, firing and firing and firing as the animal's death throes ripped and pulled at the meat of his thigh. It had stopped moving by the time the gun clicked on empty. Click. Click. Click. Click…

Teyla was there, gently taking the gun from his hand. His arm was trembling.

The canopy danced and shimmered in the breeze far above him, the swaying branches blurring in and out of focus as he tried to concentrate on breathing, just breathing. Rodney leaned over him, blocking out the canopy above.

"Is he gonna be okay?"

Dark spots danced at the edges of his vision.

He screamed one last time as Ronon pried the creature's jaws loose from his flesh.

An answering scream echoed from the tangle of jungle. A howling scream that ended in a rumbling growl that was all too familiar.

"Oh shit!"said Rodney.

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TBC... 


	2. Chapter 2

_Woo. I struggled a bit with this chapter. Plenty more Shep whumpage here – but still no scissors! Have no fear… we are slowly building up to the pants removal scene. It will happen:)_

_As ever, please review and let me know what you think – all constructive criticism greatly appreciated.

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"Be quiet."

Sheppard saw McKay open his mouth to reply to that but then he took notice of the look on Ronon's face and suddenly seemed to think better of the idea.

Another growling scream rose out of the jungle. Somewhere nearby a bird of some kind shrieked and took flight, fluttering and crashing through the foliage. Rodney stared fearfully at the tangled jungle that surrounded them, panic evident on his face.

The four of them formed a frozen tableau, unmoving, each of them hardly daring to breathe as they listened intently for what they feared to hear. There it was again. The angry scream of a predator… and an answering call.. and another.

McKay's face was positively ashen. "Ohshitohshitohshit.."

"Rodney!" Teyla's voice may have been a mere whisper but it packed enough fury to snap him out of his panic.

This was not good. "We need to get out of here."

Everyone looked round at Sheppard as he spoke, his voice sounding tight as he tried to breathe through the pain. It was pretty disconcerting to have them all standing over him, looking down at him as he lay flat on his back in the underbrush. If he hadn't felt so damn crappy he'd have laughed. Instead he tried to sit up, easier said than done with only one arm functioning properly.

Teyla moved with the lithe grace of a dancer, her every movement precise, controlled, making as little noise as possible as she knelt carefully next to Sheppard, her gaze constantly scanning the surrounding jungle.

"Colonel." She spoke quietly but with fervour, turning her earnest face to his as her firm hand stilled his attempts to rise. "We must see to your wounds. You are in no condition to travel…"

John grimaced, his breath catching for a moment. His leg throbbed and burnt fiercely and he couldn't help tensing up as the pain spiked hotly. It crested, ebbed slightly and he clenched his fists as he spoke rapidly, rushing the words out on a sharp exhalation, "There are more of those things out there.." He broke off, gasping in air as he fought for control. He was uncomfortably aware of his team's scrutiny, of the concern on their faces as they watched him struggle.

He gritted his teeth and finished his sentence in a rush, struggling to get the words out around his increasingly ragged breathing.

"..and they're gonna smell the blood.. if they haven't already… and we're all gonna end up as… as lunch, if we don't… get out of here."

"You're not going anywhere. Not like that." Ronon's tone was matter of fact, his usual stoic expression unruffled by the glare John turned on him. The Satedan loomed over Sheppard and gestured, gun still in his hand, at the blood-soaked leg of John's pants.

"You're bleeding all over the place. We don't do something about that wound, you'll bleed to death before we even get to the gate and leave a scent trail a child could follow. Those things'll track us down in seconds."

John wanted to scream in frustration. This sucked. His team was in danger and not only could he not protect them, he was a liability to them. If they stayed together his injuries made it very likely that none of them would make it off this planet alive. There was only one way out of this.

"Fine," he gritted. "McKay, Teyla, head back to the gate. Ronon here… gets to play… doctor and then we'll… follow after you."

Rodney was spluttering in disbelief before Sheppard had even finished speaking.

"Are you _insane_!"

McKay's voice was steadily increasing in pitch as he warmed up to a fully-fledged rant.

"_One_ of these things nearly killed you and there are god only knows how many more of them out there _hunting us down_!"

He gestured wildly at Ronon who merely regarded the panicked scientist with a slightly disdainful tolerance. "That.. that _thing_ damn near took your leg off and.. and Conan here has just _told_ you that all its hungry little friends will be able to track you because of all the _blood_ you're leaking all over the damn jungle! And just how the hell are you planning to be able to _walk_ anyhow?.."

Rodney was getting red in the face as he lectured Sheppard, his voice rising in volume.

"McKay.."

"We can't just _leave_ you here!.."

"_McKay!"_ Shouting at Rodney took more effort than Sheppard would like to admit but it at least had the effect of shutting the man up for the moment. He couldn't help the smallest of groans escaping him as pain rippled through him, his muscles tensing spasmodically. Teyla's hand was firm on his shoulder, offering what comfort she could, and he was vaguely aware of her low-pitched warning, "Rodney, you will draw the creatures to us!" as McKay opened his mouth.

Another growling scream floated out of the jungle, draining the angry colour from McKay's cheeks and having the almost comic effect of snapping his mouth shut before he'd uttered a syllable. John frowned. That one had sounded closer than before.

"Go back to the gate, McKay."

Rodney made as if to speak again but John didn't allow him the chance to interrupt.

"And when you get back to Atlantis, have Elizabeth send a coupla teams back here to help me and Ronon."

McKay's face was mutinous but Sheppard's tone brooked no argument and Teyla was already rising to her feet, her P90 held ready. Her expression said she didn't like this any more than McKay but John knew that Teyla understood. This was the only chance they had of getting out of here.

"We will return as soon as we are able," she stated firmly.

John nodded. He was running out of energy fast. How wondered idly just how much blood he'd lost. He wasn't too out of it to notice the look that passed between Ronon and Teyla as she pulled open a pocket on her tac vest and handed him her field dressing. Her concern showed in her expressive eyes, in the tight set of her mouth.

Rodney couldn't seem to tear his eyes from Sheppard as he too fumbled the bandage from his vest and held it out to Ronon. The Satedan accepted it wordlessly and, with a hopeless, mumbled "Well then. See you soon..", Rodney turned and followed Teyla into the thick vegetation, following the narrow path they had created in their trek from the gate. Within seconds they were gone from view.

Ronon wasted no time, crouching down beside Sheppard as another screeching howl echoed through the canopy. "We need to get moving. Those things are getting closer."

John struggled to lift his head to see what Ronon was doing. Movement was becoming an effort and Sheppard was beginning to have his doubts that he'd even be able to stand upright, let alone outrun hungry predators through the tangled vegetation between here and the gate. But then again, the thought of getting eaten wasn't a particularly attractive alternative. The desire to stay alive was a pretty good motivator.

John grunted dully as Ronon peeled back the ragged edges of his torn BDUs to get a better look at the injury. The leg was a mess. Sheppard got a glimpse of torn flesh, bright red blood glistening wetly on skin and fabric, still welling sluggishly from deep gashes. His vision started to blur and he had to let his head drop back, his breathing coming fast and ragged.

There was no time for finesse. Sheppard bit down on a yelp as Ronon pressed a field dressing firmly against the open wounds, pushing down hard. John was sweating, his face twisted with pain, by the time Ronon had pulled the fastenings tight, securing the bandage in place tight enough to keep pressure on the wound.

He was breathing heavily as the ex-runner wrapped the second bandage over the worst of the gashes on his arm, his movements efficient and practised as he swiftly tied off the dressing. Ronon's gaze was solemn as he watched John struggle with the pain and Sheppard wondered hazily how many times Ronon had had to dress his own wounds on some lonely planet, knowing always that those who hunted him were never far behind.

The Satedan rose smoothly to his feet and offered Sheppard a hand.

It took the two of them to get him upright but, to be fair, Ronon did most of the work. He managed to pull Sheppard to a sitting position and then, crouching carefully beside the Colonel, he slung John's left arm around his shoulders and, straightening slowly, lifted John up with him. Sheppard grit his teeth against the pain as he was pulled upright, his head pounding dizzily as his blood pressure got reacquainted with gravity. For a moment or two he hung limply from Ronon's shoulders like a rag doll, white-faced and trembling, his right leg almost folding beneath him as he struggled to find his balance on just one limb.

Ronon gave him a moment to catch his breath but he could sense the warrior's impatience in the tension of the broad shoulder beneath his arm. John tried to shake off the dizziness. They needed to get out of here. Now.

He pulled himself up straighter and tentatively tried putting his weight on his bandaged left leg.

Nnngghgh. He bit down on a curse. He'd never known pain like it. It flared and burned, singing along his nerve pathways until it arrived shrieking in his brain, pain receptors firing so rapidly his vision swam. The leg gave way under him and he couldn't hold in a sharp cry.

The answering scream from the jungle was close. Far too close. They were out of time.

Still firmly holding John's arm across his shoulders, Ronon wrapped his right arm around John's waist and effectively dragged him forward, bearing as much of his CO's weight as he could. It was excruciating. Every motion jarred Sheppard's leg and caused dark spots to crowd at the edges of his vision. Pain burned like fire in his thigh and he was practically a dead weight as Ronon manhandled them through the thick foliage as quickly as he could. Sheppard's head sagged forward, his breathing harsh and ragged, and he felt despair tighten in his throat as he noticed that the dressing around his thigh was already turning red; hot, sticky blood soaking through to trickle down his leg.

They'd gone less than 50 metres when a cacophony of snarling and shrieking broke out behind them. Vicious growls rent the air, the animals howling and snarling at each other. They'd found their dead pack-mate. The hunt was on in earnest.

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_TBC…_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to all those who have reviewed so far – love you all:)_

_The drama and angst continues in this chapter.. and lots of lovely Sheppy blood too! Should be wrapping this up in the next 2 or so chapters and the promised Carson with the scissors scene will be putting in an appearance!_

_Thanks for reading – please review and let me know your thoughts.

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John's leg was on fire.

The jungle around him slid by in a blur as Ronon practically carried him through the thick foliage, his legs barely holding him up, dragging and tangling in the undergrowth.

The pain in his thigh was sharp, hot, unrelenting. Every step they took sent fresh waves of agony spiking up his leg, shooting along nerve strands to explode in his brain. His breath came in a harsh pant as he tried to bite down on the pain, screwing up his face in a frown of concentration as he fought the urge to howl and yell.

Ronon was completely focused, his grip tight on John's left wrist and around his waist as he battled their way through the jungle with single-minded purpose. The tall Satedan was incredibly strong, his powerful frame bearing John's weight easily enough, but the close-growing plant life was a hindrance, slowing their progress, scratching and snagging at their skin and clothes as they passed.

From behind – far too close behind – came the growling scream of one of the predators. Ronon cursed shortly.

"They've found our trail."

He had no breath to reply, it was taking all his energy to try and stay upright. The dressing around his thigh felt heavy and wet, hot and sticky against his skin, and he craned his neck forward to try and see as they pushed through tangled leaves, Ronon physically shouldering his way through the jungle. Shit. The bandage was soaked through, soggy and dark, unabsorbed blood overflowing the saturated padding to soak into the fabric of his pants, to drip and trickle down his leg. Ronon had been right, they were leaving a trail that would attract every predator for miles.

"Shit..." his voice was breathy and faint, tight with pain.

"Sheppard?"

He breathed in sharply as his foot tangled in the undergrowth, jerking his leg painfully, and grit his teeth. "I'm leaking.."

Ronon spared a cursory glance at the blood-soaked bandage, his face unreadable, before abruptly hitching John into a more upright position and picking up the pace. Leaves and thin branches whipped mercilessly against John's face as Ronon pulled him sharply along. The Satedan's head was turned from him, his attention focused on finding the clearest path through the foliage, and John couldn't see his expression. He could, however, feel the tension in the arm gripping his waist, hear the growing harshness in Ronon's breathing as he pushed himself harder, dredging an extra ounce of speed from his muscles.

"Ronon.." John was starting to feel dizzy again. He wondered vaguely just how much blood he was losing..

"Hush."

John frowned. Hush! "_Ronon_.."

Their progress came to a sudden halt, Ronon tightening his grip on Sheppard's wrist as momentum would have swung him off-balance.

"Hush, Sheppard. I'm listening…."

Listening? John tried to hear what Ronon was listening for but all he could hear was the rustle of the jungle, the far-off calls of alien creatures and the pounding of his pulse, loud in his ears, the heavy panting of his own breathing. Ronon tilted his head to one side, an oddly predatory movement, and John was forcibly reminded once again of the Satedan's past.. his years living alone, on the run, surviving on his wits alone in the wilderness of a hundred alien worlds. Seven years. Seven years of running and fighting – of surviving.

A low howl sounded from behind them and was quickly joined by a second. They were running out of time.

"Ronon? We need to keep moving.." John's throat felt dry, his voice came out harsh and ragged.

The shaggy, dreadlocked head tilted again, Ronon seemingly straining to pick out a sound from the jungle noises. John sagged, his legs trembling under him, pain and blood loss sapping the strength from his limbs. For a long moment the two men stood motionless, John slumped helplessly against the former runner's side, and then, abruptly, Ronon strode forward, once again hauling John upright and pulling him with him.

Ronon had turned them sharply to the right and they pushed onwards into the jungle, moving away from the slightly easier path of the trail they had broken through on their way out from the gate.

John's head spun dizzily and he was starting to feel suspiciously like he was going to throw up. He clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. He really didn't want to throw up. The jungle was dense here, thick-trunked trees growing closely together, their branches and leaves intertwining, tough vines tangling amongst their limbs. John let out a grunt as his shoulder slammed against the solid trunk of a tree, the rough bark scraping at his skin as he slid past. Ronon didn't slow for even a moment.

"We're goin' the wrong way.." John mumbled.

They squeezed between tree trunks, pushed a path through tangled foliage, sharp branches scratching at their skin, sap staining their clothes. Insects buzzed about them in the heat of the tropical forest.

"Ronon.. we're heading away.. from the gate.."

The Satedan spared him a quick glance as he swung them around a large, moss-covered tree trunk.

"No choice," he stated shortly. "We'll never make it to the gate."

The warrior's bald assessment of their situation hit John hard, like a punch to the gut. They were in serious trouble here – and there was nothing he could do about it. His injuries had left him unable to do his job, to lead and protect, and because of that failure they stood a good chance of dying here on this alien world. John knew he was a stubborn man, often to a fault, but that stubbornness had served him well in the past. He'd been in plenty of bad situations before now and refused to give up, to give in, and had somehow found a way out of the crisis. But all his training, all his courage or quick-thinking could not help them now. He wasn't gonna be able to talk his way out of this one, or find a mathematical solution, or even fight his way out. A hungry predator didn't care what you thought or how witty or clever you were. It just wanted you dead. And not only was he unable to defend himself, he was a liability to Ronon. The Satedan would die too, trying to defend his CO.

Another rising howl floated out of the jungle, guttural and snarling. It was close behind them. Close enough to send a shiver down John's back. He swallowed as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

"Leave me here. Get yourself to the gate."

"Not gonna happen." Ronon's response was immediate and abrupt.

"That's an order, Ronon."

Silence. Granted it was hard to sound commanding when pain had stolen the breath from your lungs and you were talking through clenched teeth but even so…

He tried again. "You said it yourself, we don't… we don't have a.. hope of making it to the gate…"

Ronon's voice was gruff as he interrupted, "We're not going to the gate."

"Then where..?"

"Hush."

John was getting a little tired of being shushed by Ronon.

"What..?"

"Hush. Listen."

John grit his teeth and strained to hear what Ronon could be talking about. The jungle around them was alive with noise; the buzzing of insects, the distant call of birds and animals, the rustling and cracking of their passage through the dense undergrowth. Their own breathing was loud in John's ears, his own ragged, painful gasps, Ronon huffing with the exertion of dragging John's weight through the humid forest.

And then he thought he heard it. Faintly, underneath all the other sounds of the jungle, John heard a noise. A babbling, musical noise, a rushing sound; was that..? Water. Fast flowing water.

The trees suddenly began to thin and then John could hear the noise more clearly. Definitely water; a stream or a river. Somewhere close by. Ronon hauled him upright, rearranging his burden with a jerking motion that left John gasping, and increased his pace even further.

The noise of the river grew louder as the foliage slowly thinned out, their speed increasing as it became easier to push through the less tightly-packed foliage. A growling scream from close behind told them their hunters were still on their trail.

John caught a flash of light, the sudden reflection of sunlight on a rippling surface, and then they were clear of the trees and stepping abruptly from the gloom of the jungle into the startling brightness of a rock-strewn river bank. The river was shallow here, no more than a couple of feet deep, but wide – wide enough that the jungle canopy stretching above could not span the width of the river, leaving a gap in the trees, a slice of bright blue sky and blinding sunlight that sparkled and danced on the fast-flowing water. At any other time it would have been a beautiful spot. Right now, to John, it was just one more step on their path to survival.

Ronon slowed to a stop at the edge of the river and took careful stock of their surroundings, turning his head as he checked upstream and down, before dropping his chin to look at the bloody bandage around John's leg.

"Can you stand?"

John shook his head. "I don't think so." His legs were trembling already, even with Ronon bearing most of his weight.

"Okay. Then sit." The tall Satedan bent carefully at the knees, lowering Sheppard gently to the ground, ducking his head out from under John's arm as he sat him up against a large boulder close to the riverbank. John leaned gratefully against the support, struggling to catch his breath as his muscles trembled, his injured leg protesting the movement vociferously.

Ronon crouched at his side, his face serious as he looked him over appraisingly. John turned his head from that frank gaze, uncomfortably aware that time was not on their side.

"So what's the plan?" he breathed, his muscles tensing involuntarily as pain flared and ebbed in his thigh.

Ronon's face was impassive, his tone unruffled. "Plan is, you stay here – you're as white as a sheet." He bent his shaggy head over John's leg as he prodded carefully at the soaked field-dressing, eliciting a sharp hiss from John.

"Sorry."

John grunted tightly, his body held tensely, as the Satedan continued, "This is gonna hurt.."

John's hands clenched into fists in the sandy dirt of the riverbank as Ronon pulled at the knots tying the dressing in place, swiftly and efficiently stripping the dripping bandage from the wound. John's eyes were clenched shut at the motion jarred his leg, sending fresh agony coursing through him. He opened his eyes to find Ronon standing over him, the bloody bandage clutched in one hand.

"Don't go anywhere."

John squinted against the sunlight at the silhouetted figure looming over him. "Trust me," he gasped painfully, "really not an issue…"

The former runner nodded shortly and spun on his heel, moving quickly upstream along the riverbank. John sagged against the rock, letting his breathing slowly even out, and watched in bemusement as Ronon stopped, bending to wipe a sticky smear of blood on a rock, before striding off again, stopping sporadically here and there to smear more blood against a tree or a rock or to squeeze the soggy mess in his hand until bright red blood dripped from his fingers, spattering onto the sandy earth. John felt slightly queasy as he watched Ronon leave a deliberate trail of his blood along the riverbank.

From his sitting position, John could get a better look at the mess that was his leg and nausea churned his stomach as he looked at the mangled flesh. Blood was still welling sluggishly from deep, ragged puncture wounds where the creature's teeth had ripped and worried at the meat of his thigh. The torn fabric of his BDUs was stuck wetly to his skin, blood drying and crusting around the wounds.

He looked up again in time to see Ronon wind up his arm and pitch the sodden mass of bandages far ahead of him, the sunlight picking out a spray of bright red droplets as it flew through the air to crash through the canopy up ahead, disappearing into the thick foliage with a muffled noise. It was a good throw, John had to admit.

Ronon was back at his side within moments and wasted no time in reaching a hand down to pull him upright. John braced himself to stand, gritting his teeth as he grasped Ron's hand firmly, only to be surprised when the Satedan pulled him sharply upwards, bending in one smooth motion to put his shoulder to John's belly and swiftly rising to stand with John draped across his shoulders in a pretty convincing fireman's lift.

John's head spun from the sudden motion and the corresponding flare of pain in his thigh robbed him of his breath, leaving dark spots dancing across his vision as he struggled to breathe. He was dimly aware of motion, the splashing sounds of Ronon wading into the fast-flowing river. By the time the momentary dizziness had passed the jogging motion of being carried upside down was beginning to make him decidedly nauseous.

"Ronon…"

"Sorry, Sheppard." The deep voice rumbled through John's chest as Ronon spoke. "We need to hurry if we have any chance of this working. I can carry you faster'n I can drag you."

John swallowed thickly, his head bouncing as Ronon splashed rapidly downstream, the water swirling around his calves. He lifted his head just enough to look around and realise that they were in the middle of the river, Ronon wading through the swirling waters as he carried John rapidly in the opposite direction from the blood trail he'd laid.

"Will this work?" he queried woozily, his voice muffled against Ronon's back as he let his head drop tiredly back down.

He felt the Satedan shrug. "The river'll throw them off our scent for a least a little while. With any luck they'll follow the blood trail upstream and fight over that bloody bandage for a while before they track us back to where we entered the water; give us enough time to either get to the gate or for McKay and Teyla to show up with reinforcements."

John groaned quietly, his head spinning as the sparkling water swirled by beneath him. His arms hung limply over his head and his fingertips trailed briefly in the icy water as the riverbed fell away into a slight dip before rising again.

"And if it doesn't?" he mumbled.

"Then we'll.. what's that earth phrase McKay uses? "Burn that bridge when we cross over it"?"

John couldn't help a small grin. "Close enough, Ronon. Close enough."

The blood was pounding in John's head, dizziness forcing him to close his eyes. The sun was warm on his back and the rhythmic motion of Ronon's long strides was beginning to make him drowsy. It occurred to him vaguely that this was probably a symptom of blood loss but he couldn't summon up the energy to care. The last sound he heard before slipping into darkness was the howling cry of the predators - one at first, then others joining it till four or five screams mingled into a discordant harmony – echoing down to them from somewhere further upstream.

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_TBC.._


	4. Chapter 4

_Finally got this chapter finished – despite my computer's best efforts to the contrary! We've drawing to a close with this story now.. but that doesn't mean the whumpage is over for poor Sheppy. Oh no, my friend. Poor old Sheppy is getting whumped but good in this chapter!_

_Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed – I think we're looking at just one more chapter to finish this fic... and to introduce the long-awaited "pants-cutting" scene!_

_Please do leave a review and let me know your thoughts – all comments and constructive criticism gratefully recieved!_

_P.S. Uh oh... it looks like the cliffhanger bunny is back:)

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John came back to consciousness to the accompaniment of grinding, hot pain. He sucked in a ragged, moaning breath, the comfortable darkness deserting him as agony flared in his thigh, spreading outwards in a rolling wave that picked him up and tumbled him into wakefulness. He opened his eyes, squinting against the bright sunlight, to find himself laying flat on his back, looking up at the empty blue sky above. He could hear the rushing of water nearby. He felt dizzy, weak, pain ebbing and flaring angrily in his leg.

Something shifted in the periphery of his vision and he rolled his head groggily to find Ronon crouching beside him, a frown of concentration on his face as he leaned over Sheppard's leg with a damp piece of cloth in his hand. Before John could draw breath ask him what he has doing, Ronon reached out and began to dab carefully at the torn and bloody flesh. Sheppard's vision greyed out and he bit back a strangled cry, his muscles tensing involuntarily, arching his back up off the ground as Ronon's touch awoke searing pain in his leg. Liquid fire ran along his nerves, stealing the breath from his lungs, leaving him dizzy. When he could breathe anything like steadily again he opened his eyes to find the Satedan gazing down at him steadily.

"Could you.. not.. do that?" he gasped out.

Ronon's face remained impassive. "You want it to get infected?" He pressed the damp cloth to tender flesh once again, jerking his hand back in frustration as John shuddered and let out a sharp cry.

"Sheppard..."

John panted brokenly, feeling sweat breaking out on his forehead as he tried to breathe through the spiking pain. Ronon's voice was tinged with a hint of impatience as he sat back on his heels and regarded his trembling CO.

"I have to clean this – but if you keep making a noise like that, you're gonna lead those things right to us."

Specialist Ronon Dex, practical to the last. The man who had insisted on staying awake and upright whilst undergoing painful surgery without the benefit of anaesthetic. John was beginning to feel that his stoical endurance credentials were seriously not up to scratch in this situation. His head was swimming and he let it fall to one side loosely, swallowing convulsively as he fought for control.

The river splashed and frothed just a couple of meters away, rather deeper now than it had been upstream, dancing around rocks and boulders as it rushed past them. It occurred to John that he had no idea how long he'd been out for or how far downstream Ronon had carried him. The Satedan had chosen a good place to stop – a grassy verge alongside the river where the jungle vegetation curved away from the shoreline, leaving a small clearing that was easily defensible.

"Sheppard.."

John jerked involuntarily, Ronon's voice breaking into his wandering thoughts, and sluggishly twisted his head back to see the former runner regarding him with.. was that a dash of concern on the fierce warrior's face? His attention drifted and he found himself staring at the sleeveless tunic Ronon habitually wore.. the fabric was damp, a dark stain spreading down the front of the garment, and John stared at it in confusion before slowly realising that it was blood. His blood. Soaked into the fabric of Ronon's clothes as he had carried him downstream. Sheppard felt oddly woozy, his thoughts disconnected and slow. He struggled to focus on the matter at hand.

"Did we... did we lose 'em?" His voice sounded weak, almost shaky.

Ronon nodded shortly, "For now. But they'll pick up our tracks eventually – we need to keep moving."

"Any.. any word from... Rodney and.. Teyla?" Talking was an effort, quickly sapping his meagre store of energy.

Ronon was leaning forward as he spoke now, his attention once again focused on Sheppard's injuries. "Nothing so far. They've probably made it to the gate by now." He pressed the damp cloth gently to the edges of one of the deep puncture wounds and let out a growl of frustration as Sheppard jerked instinctively away from the touch, moaning as hot pain briefly roused him from his pervasive lethargy.

John's body felt super-heated, flushed and dizzy. He was vaguely aware of sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, trickling down the side of his face to soak into the hair at his temples. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps. Ronon loomed over him, blocking out the bright glare of the sunlight, his face serious.

"I need to clean these wounds," he stated firmly, his voice low and rough "or they're gonna get infected." The Satedan glanced down at John's leg before continuing ominously, "That's if they're not already - animal bites are bad for infection."

Sheppard nodded his understanding. He'd spent enough hours at McMurdo idly watching the Discovery Channel, for lack of anything better to do, to recall that carnivores' mouths were rife with bacteria. It was basic survival training to try and clean and disinfect any animal bite as soon as possible. Survival training, however, was less forthcoming on suggestions for what to do when the animal that bit you was still hunting you down.. and when any attempt to touch the wounds had you wanting to scream the place down.

He breathed out heavily, saying shortly, "Do it."

"You need to stay quiet. Sound carries in the jungle."

Sheppard gritted his teeth. "Just... make it quick."

Ronon gave him a long look and then simply nodded, understanding in his eyes.

He couldn't help tensing up as Ronon leaned over him.

Sheppard shuddered as Ronon pressed the cloth firmly against the ragged mess that was his thigh, clenching his jaw desperately as he felt the damp fabric slide roughly over the abraded flesh, wiping away blood and dirt and sweat. God, the pain was incredible. It roared through him like a wave of fire, washing away conscious thought, leaving only raw, agonising sensation. John's hands clenched until his arms shook, tears leaking from the corners of his screwed-shut eyes, a smothered keening sound escaping his tightly-pressed lips.

Oh god, how much longer? He could feel every touch, every swift pass of the sodden cloth over his flesh as Ronon worked efficiently to cleanse the wounds. He gagged, moaning helplessly. It hurt so much. His entire leg burned with agony. His throat felt tight with the effort to stay quiet and he could feel the scream building in his chest.

He couldn't help himself; a sharp cry was ripped from him as Ronon pressed hard into the wounds, digging out pieces of debris. A large hand was suddenly clamped over his mouth, pushing his head firmly against the unyielding ground, smothering the scream on his lips. Sheppard twisted helplessly, his hands clawing at the earth, pinned to the ground by Ronon's hands on his face and his leg, his screams muffled as the Satedan cleaned out the wounds thoroughly. He screamed and screamed until his throat was raw, Ronon's hand heavy across his open mouth, his teeth scraping against skin.

He couldn't breathe. Darkness was crowding in at the edges of his vision and the energy had drained from his muscles, his involuntary struggles growing weak. A helpless shiver ran through him. Pain thrummed through his whole body, leaving him dizzy and nauseous. He was beyond screaming now, beyond thought, drifting on the edge of consciousness. He was barely aware of the pressure on his leg ceasing and of Ronon's face looming over him.

His team mate's voice seemed to echo oddly through the buzzing in his ears.

"Sheppard?"

Ronon's hand lifted from his mouth and John was vaguely aware of the harsh panting of his own breathing. He stared unseeingly at the bright blue sky above. His limbs felt heavy and limp. He was aware of Ronon talking but he couldn't make sense of the words. He couldn't think around the pain still singing in his veins. His head throbbed dizzily.

He grimaced, tired muscles tensing up as something soft pressed tightly against his wounds. Ronon's voice was a drone in the background. He closed his eyes tiredly, letting the words wash over him as the sensation of pressure increased around his thigh. He thought he heard the word "clean" and maybe "dressing" and then the world faded to black and he slipped gratefully into the darkness, leaving the angry pain behind.

* * *

Sheppard drifted in and out. He was vaguely aware of movement, of a rhythmic jogging motion, and at one point he roused enough to realise that he was once again hanging upside down over Ronon's shoulder. 

He felt hot and dizzy, his head feeling like it was stuffed with cotton wool. Thoughts were hard to keep hold of and he kept slipping away from himself, the darkness pulling him under only to jerk him awake again what felt like moments later. His leg burned now with a constant pain that flared and growled as he bumped against Ronon's body with every jolting step. He was drenched in sweat, his muscles trembling minutely.

Once he thought he heard the crackle of voices.. but there was no-one here but Ronon and he, no-one to talk to. Maybe he'd dreamed that part…

He startled into brief wakefulness when the screaming howl of the predators floated down to them from upstream and the pace of Ronon's strides quickly increased. He was vaguely aware of Ronon's voice, telling him, "They've found our trail again. You need to hurry."

He swung limply over the Satedan's shoulder, his arms dangling loosely beside his head, confused at Ronon's words. Hurry and do what? Was he supposed to be doing something? His head was pounding and the darkness sucked him in again.

He was jerked awake by motion, his body jolting up and down as Ronon... Ronon was running, breathing heavily, his feet hitting the ground hard and fast, every heavy step reverberating through John's aching muscles. He was distantly aware that they were on solid ground, no longer wading through the river. He felt flushed with heat, his head swimming dizzily and he was glad to let the darkness fold him into its soft embrace.

He let out a grunt as he hit the ground heavily, the impact awakening the raging fire in his thigh. He struggled to breathe, sweating and trembling, opening his eyes in bemusement to see blue sky and sunshine, the edges of the canopy dancing in the breeze far above. He started groggily as the distinctive whining discharge of Ronon's gun shattered the jungle calm, closely followed by the angry squeal of an animal in pain.

"Ronon..?" his mouth felt dry, his tongue thick, and his voice was no more than a cracked whisper.

More gunfire from close by, Ronon's weapon and a 9mm too. Booted feet came into view, stepping over him as he lay limp and trembling on the ground. He looked up to see the Satedan standing over him, a gun in each hand, his dreadlocks whipping as he turned his head back and forth, twisting his torso to fire in different directions.

Under the loud retort of the gunfire, Sheppard could hear the screaming growls of their hunters. The sound seemed to come from all around them.

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_TBC..._


	5. Chapter 5

_Okay.. so I lied. This isn't the final chapter after all! I tried to wrap it up in this one but it's become obvious that there's a lot more stuff to tie up yet and we're gonna have to have just one more chapter... Mmmmm, post-op Sheppy :)_

_You will see the POV has changed to Carson for this chappy – I think poor old Sheppy's been through enough and he deserves a bit of a snooze... and who better to describe all the medical goings-on than our favourite Scot?_

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far – hope you're enjoying how the story is developing. One last chappy to go now – I promise!_

_Please do review and let me know your thoughts – it might make me write faster... grin

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Dr Carson Beckett hung onto the console for dear life as the puddle jumper banked sharply, barely clearing the treetops as it surged forward. In between his growing concern for his patient – and his fear of dying in an explosion of fiery wreckage - he was immensely thankful that he wasn't the one having to fly the infernal craft.

It had taken some seriously fancy flying to even get the puddle jumper here – the planet's surface was heavily forested, the jungle growing close to the gate, and there was barely enough clearance around the stargate to fit a jumper through. They'd had to enter the stargate infuriatingly slowly and begin braking as soon as they exited – and even then they had lurched to a stop mere inches from the thick tree trunks, leaving Carson, in the co-pilot's seat, green-faced and dizzy with relief. Their air force pilot – Carson made a mental note to find out the man's name, you should always know the name of a man you owe your life to – had then manoeuvred them carefully straight upwards, navigating the overhanging canopy with skill, branches scraping the outer hull as they ascended, the creaking and cracking noises making Carson shudder.

It had been a slow, tense process and the occupants of the small craft had found themselves increasingly on edge as the jumper had scraped through the canopy, twisting and swerving to avoid larger obstacles, all of them acutely aware of the passing of time and the urgency of their mission. Ronon's terse radio message telling them to hurry had increased the tension exponentially, the air thick with a mounting sense of impatience with the necessarily slow rate of their ascent. Carson had watched the deliberate passage of the tangled jungle foliage through the viewscreen of the jumper, biting down on a rising frustration even as he planned his treatment options based on the information Rodney and Teyla had brought back through the gate.

Sheppard's team members had insisted on accompanying the rescue party back through the gate and even now sat with the triage team in the back of the jumper, their skin and clothing still scratched and sticky with sap, the tension evident on their faces.

The canopy shot past beneath them as the pilot pushed the craft to its limits.

Carson could see the trees begin to thin out far head, a break in the canopy a sharp, visible line, as they rapidly approached the river Ronon had directed them to. The HUD flashed up on the viewscreen as the pilot tracked Ronon's radio signal, adjusting their course to take the most direct line to their missing expedition members.

The scene as they cleared the treetops and began to descend into the river valley was like something out of a movie, Carson thought. A Western movie.. probably one with "Last Stand" somewhere in the title.

Ronon had chosen his location well, taking up a defensive position near a rocky outcropping situated on a wide bend in the river where the banks widened out enough to allow enough space – barely - for a jumper to land. As they descended rapidly, Carson could see that the tall warrior stood astride a crumpled form on the riverbank, a gun in each hand as he tried desperately to keep at bay a pack of five large predators who now had the two members of SGA1 surrounded.

The situation looked pretty desperate; Teyla and Rodney had filled the team in on the ferocity of the beast they had encountered and its resilience, describing how it had survived all their attempts to kill it, refusing to relinquish it's prey until Sheppard had blown its brains out at close range. On the ground below them, Ronon was twisting around, trying his best to keep all the creatures in view, his arms outstretched as he targeted the stalking animals, but his shots only served to delay the inevitable, causing one hungry predator to squeal and drop back even as two more crept closer whilst his back was turned. He didn't take his attention from the beasts for even a second as the jumper hovered overhead.

The animals hesitated at the unfamiliar noise of the puddle jumper, cringing and snarling at this new threat. Carson rose from his seat and made his way to the rear section of the jumper as their pilot skilfully guided them downwards, squeezing the little craft into a space barely large enough to hold it. Their small strike force of marines were already forming up at the rear hatch as they landed. The major in command hit the door control as soon as they felt the bottom of the jumper hit the ground and the marines poured out onto the riverbank, weapons raised and immediately laying down a heavy spray of cover fire.

For a moment all was confusion and Beckett's senses were overwhelmed by the roar of gunfire, the howls and squeals of wounded animals, and the heavy smell of cordite in the air. He waited anxiously in the jumper, looking on helplessly as the marines quickly formed a defensive perimeter around Ronon and the injured Colonel, using controlled bursts of automatic fire to keep the predators pinned down away from the jumper. Making the most of the short reprieve, Ronon bent and grabbed hold of the limp form at his feet and, with a sudden heave, threw Sheppard roughly over his shoulder before making a run for the jumper, the marines falling in behind him in a practised move, covering their retreat.

The rear compartment of the jumper was pure chaos, Carson's team crowding around Ronon and Sheppard, the strike force piling in through the open hatchway even as the exhausted Satedan crouched and slid Sheppard from his shoulders into the waiting arms of the triage team. The sound of gunfire was loud in the cramped space as the marines fired around the edges of the closing rear hatch, the major shouting over the din for the pilot to get them airborne, soldiers stepping around and over Beckett's team as they carefully laid Sheppard down on the floor of the jumper so they could start to assess their patient.

Carson's face was a tight frown of concentration as he quickly ran through the basics: airways, breathing and circulation. The Colonel stirred restlessly as Beckett pressed his fingers firmly to his neck, searching for a carotid pulse. It was there but it was weak and rapid, fluttering under his fingers. Sheppard's skin was hot and flushed under his touch, the Colonel's hair damp and sticky with sweat. Carson's mind raced ahead of him, already planning treatment options as he rapidly diagnosed shock, blood loss, probable infection and fever and, of course, massive trauma…

He let his team deal with the basics, setting up IV lines - fluids and type-specific - whilst he assessed his patient's injuries, moving carefully down Sheppard's limp body, taking note of the bandage wrapped around the upper right arm, pulling up the Colonel's ripped t-shirt to examine the shallow gash across his ribs. He knelt cautiously beside Sheppard in the cramped confines of the jumper and began to gently peel away the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his thigh, grimacing as he pulled away the sodden mass and got his first look at the damage beneath.

"Oh my god..." He couldn't help the whispered exhalation at the sight of the deep, ragged wounds in Sheppard's thigh muscle.

"I cleaned it up as best I could. Used fresh water from the river..." Ronon's deep voice was low and weary. Carson glanced up to find the Satedan slumped on the bench near the door into the forward section of the jumper, Rodney and Teyla gathered around him, all of their faces showing the same fearful tension as they watched the medics work on their team leader. Ronon looked physically exhausted, the scrapes and stains on his skin and clothes a testament to his arduous flight through the jungle. Carson made a mental note to make sure that Ronon received a thorough check-up on their return to Atlantis.

"You did fine, son." It was clear to all of them that Sheppard wouldn't be alive right now were it not for the actions of the former runner. He had risked his own life to help his injured CO, literally carrying the man to safety under desperate circumstances. He had played his part admirably – now it was Carson's turn to complete the job.

He rummaged in his medical pack for a pair of scissors and turned back to his patient. Given their situation, Ronon had done a good job of cleaning up the wounds but Sheppard had continued to bleed during their last, frantic flight to safety and the whole thigh area was blood-soaked and crusted, the ragged edges of the Colonel's torn BDUs sticking damply to his leg. The flesh around the wounds looked puffy and inflamed and Carson suspected infection was already setting in. He really needed to properly clean and inspect the wounds as soon as possible.

Crawling awkwardly along the floor of the jumper, Carson took hold of the hem of Sheppard's BDUs and quickly ran his scissors up through the pants leg, the sharp blades slicing rapidly through the fabric up as far as the thigh. Carson was vaguely aware of a muttered expletive from Rodney as they all saw that the entire length of Sheppard's leg was stained and smeared with blood, a pattern of glistening rivulets where overflow from the soaked bandages had seeped from the absorbent padding and trickled downwards.

Sheppard stirred restlessly when Carson began to delicately cut through the torn fabric around the wounds, carefully peeling away the sodden, stiff material, and he was surprised to see the Colonel's eyelids fluttering. Sheppard had been barely conscious when Ronon had carried him into the jumper, his eyes closed, reacting only slightly to external stimuli and, quite frankly, given the extent of the blood loss involved, Carson was amazed he was conscious at all.. but Sheppard actually seemed to be waking up. He turned back to his delicate task, pulling the material back to expose the sluggishly bleeding wounds. The Colonel groaned softly and Carson had to pull his hands away as Sheppard's leg jerked.

One of Beckett's team gently lifted an eyelid and shone a penlight to check for pupil responses and Sheppard twitched away from the glare, mumbling incoherently.

"Colonel?" Carson leaned over as he spoke, seeing Sheppard's eyes blink slowly open, his gaze unfocused. Sheppard frowned drowsily, his throat working as he tired to speak.

"Doc..?" It was barely a whisper, the Colonel's voice dry and cracked.

"Yes, son. You're going to be fine.. we'll be back in Atlantis in no time.." Carson looked over his shoulder as he spoke, glancing at the marine major for confirmation. The soldier nodded from his position just inside the forward compartment, raising a hand with fingers spread to indicate 5 minutes.

Carson's attention was brought quickly back to Sheppard as the Colonel let out a ragged groan, his face creasing in pain as he moved restlessly.

"Just lie still now, lad. We'll get you fixed up as good as new.."

Sheppard's hands clenched into fists, his eyes flying open as he tried to lift his head. "Ronon?.."

"Here."

Sheppard seemed to relax on hearing the Satedan's rumbling voice, giving in to the pressure of Carson's hand on his chest, his head dropping back to the floor.

"He's fine," Carson reassured him. "Everyone's fine. We're in the jumper and on our way back to Atlantis."

Sheppard didn't seem to be listening anymore, his eyes glazed and bright, his skin flushed with fever. Carson turned back to his team, issuing instructions for broad spectrum antibiotics to counteract the infection. The jumper lurched slightly, the inertial dampeners not reacting fast enough to absorb all of the motion, as the craft slowed to a hover and began its careful descent through the canopy. Sheppard cried out as the motion rocked his leg and Carson added a request for an IV push of morphine to his orders.

The journey down through the overhanging jungle was as slow and tense as the ascent had been, everyone's attention focused on Carson and his team as they worked to stabilise Sheppard. The Colonel's eyes had slid closed as the morphine provided blessed relief from the pain and Carson was able to work more quickly, clearing the matted fabric from around the wounds and swabbing the area deftly with antiseptic, cleaning away the blood to examine the injuries. The puncture wounds were deep, the edges ragged and torn where the predator's teeth had pulled and worried at the flesh. Blood still oozed slowly but in many ways the Colonel had been lucky – none of the major blood vessels were compromised. If the femoral artery or the saphenous vein had been damaged, Sheppard would not have survived; he would have bled out in mere moments.

The atmosphere in the jumper was charged, the occupants unnaturally silent as everyone focused on the drama playing out on the floor of the rear compartment. Carson was aware that Sheppard's condition must look daunting to his fearful audience; the man's skin was pale and clammy, an unnatural flush on his cheeks evidence of the fever that had set in. There seemed to be blood everywhere; soaked into the Colonel's clothes, smeared across his skin, pooling on the floor beneath his legs, glistening on the fingers of the latex gloves that covered Carson's hands as he worked to stem the bleeding.

"It looks like we're going to need to stitch most of these," Carson decided, looking to his team for agreement. He glanced out of the viewscreen at the passing jungle and considered his options.

"Pack the wounds," he ordered. "We'll wait until we get back to Atlantis. I want to get him into surgery in a sterile environment and make sure we repair as much damage as we can, check that the blood flow isn't compromised."

The jumper settled into a hover as the pilot dialled the gate address. The small clearing around the gate was barely large enough to contain the expanding event horizon as the gate activated so the jumper had to wait for the wormhole to establish before completing its descent. Beckett activated his radio as soon as they had a connection and was immediately relaying orders back to his team, updating them on the situation and ordering the OR to be prepared.

Carson was entirely focused on his patient as the jumper settled into place in the jumper bay, his team meeting them at the rear hatch with a waiting gurney. He had time to offer the briefest of reassurances to the hovering Dr Weir as his team carefully lifted Sheppard and settled him on the gurney.

"You'll let me know as soon as there's any news?" Elizabeth's face mirrored the concern evidenced by Sheppard's team as they stumbled tiredly from the jumper.

"Of course." With a last apologetic nod, Beckett turned and followed his team as they rushed the unconscious Colonel Sheppard into surgery.

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_TBC..._


	6. Chapter 6

_Ooops. Yet again this story has fooled me into thinking I could finish it… only to twist and turn on me and end up requiring just one more chapter! Ah well…_

_Plenty of Shep whumpage in this one – basted lightly in "naked Sheppy under a sheet" and with a pinch of McKay angst thrown in for good measure. Bake slowly on a medium heat and serve with a side order of woozy, delirious Shep. :)_

_You may also notice that the cliffie bunny put in one last surprise appearance on this one! Sorry bout that!_

_Next – and final, honestly! – chapter to follow as soon as possible. Please review and give me your thoughts!

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Sheppard was vaguely aware of motion. He woozily realised that he was still lying down.. and yet he couldn't shake the sensation of motion, of air moving past him as he travelled. He felt hot, his head was pounding, his mouth dry. He wanted to open his eyes but couldn't seem to dredge up the energy. Voices buzzed in his ears, oddly muffled, the words floating over him and around him as he travelled without moving. Consciousness was a thin thread that slipped through his fingers. He tried to grasp it but it unravelled in his hands and he slipped into darkness.

He was cold. He could feel his body shivering but couldn't seem to stop the motion, couldn't make his muscles stop trembling. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, his thoughts tangled and disjointed. His body felt heavy, his limbs weak and limp. He was so cold. He struggled to move and was rewarded with a sudden rush of pain that washed over him, drawing the breath from him in an involuntary gasp. The sensation left him dizzy, his head reeling. Through the buzzing in his ears he became aware of voices, their words indistinct, and something damp and cool was placed against his forehead. He flinched away from that cold touch, the shivering intensifying in his aching muscles, and tried to move a hand to his face. A firm grip held his arm in place and he moaned in frustration as he struggled to break free, his weak body betraying him. He twisted restlessly, crying out at the fresh wave of pain that flowed through him. The voices were louder now, talking back and forth across him, talking to him? He couldn't make out the words, couldn't concentrate, couldn't stop himself from shivering and trembling and hurting. And then what little energy he had was stolen from him, a slow lethargy creeping over him, numbing sensation, dulling the pain, pushing him back down into darkness.

* * *

Carson let out an exhausted sigh as he practically collapsed into his office chair. A glance at his watch told him it was long after midnight – making it two nights in a row that he had gotten no more than a snatched hour or two of sleep. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. They felt gritty and dry. He sighed again, sliding further down into the chair. Maybe he'd just rest his eyes for a minute. 

He started awake as the door slid open with its characteristic sigh, pushing himself stiffly upright with a groan and raising a slow hand to rub at his aching neck. Elizabeth peeked around the doorway with an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, "I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just wondering.."

He knew full well what she had been wondering, knew why she too was still awake at this hour. He checked his watch. 3.40am. He'd been asleep for 12 minutes.

He shook his head sadly. "There's still no change, lass," he informed her regretfully, his keen physician's eye taking in the strain on her face, the shadows under her eyes. "You really should get some rest," he admonished. "I'll let you know as soon as there's any improvement."

They shared a brief smile at the defiant optimism of that statement, both of them unwilling to admit to the possibility that the situation would do anything other than improve.

"Can I see him?"

Carson hesitated, his instincts as a doctor telling him that Dr Weir should be in bed getting some much-needed rest, but common sense told him that she wouldn't go to bed even if he threw her out of the infirmary. And he wasn't really in a position to lecture her on that front, given the amount of time he'd spent in here himself recently. Realistically he knew he should probably have taken a proper break, let his staff deal with things for a while – they were all well-trained and excellent at their jobs, that was why he'd picked them after all – but somehow he couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt the same fear and concern as Elizabeth, the same need to personally make sure that his patient was being looked after. He sighed. They were as bad as each other.

He rose stiffly from the chair and, with a gesture for Elizabeth to precede him, walked tiredly back into the main infirmary, moving almost without conscious thought to the bedside where he had spent most of the last 56 hours. Dr Weir hesitated outside the privacy curtains and he stepped past her, slipping through the narrow gap and, after a quick glance, turning back to indicate that it was okay for her to follow. The nurse on duty spared him a quick smile as she worked and, as Elizabeth joined him, the two of them stood silent and sombre, gazing down at their friend.

Colonel Sheppard looked awful.

He was frighteningly pale, save for a high flush of unnatural colour on his cheeks. His too-white skin was bathed in sweat, moisture sticking his hair damply to his forehead and temples, and, even under heavy sedation and IV painkillers, he stirred restlessly, his head tossing on the sweat-soaked pillow, half-formed words mumbled on his lips. Carson saw Elizabeth's lips tighten as her eyes fell on the soft restraints at his wrists. He liked it no better than she but they'd had no other choice. The Colonel was delirious with fever, restless and agitated even though sedated, and had pulled out two IVs before they'd reluctantly agreed to the need for restraints. Even as Carson watched, John's arms pulled tightly at their bindings and he moaned in his delirium. The nurse leant over him, muttering soothing nothings as she pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, trying to calm him. A shudder wracked Sheppard's pale, thin body and he flinched away from the cool cloth.

"His temperature is still dangerously high," Carson murmured, instinctively lowering his voice so as not to disturb his patient, even though John was sedated. "We've tried every antibiotic we have but nothing seems to be effective against this infection."

He sighed, turning his gaze to Elizabeth. "All we can really do now is wait," he told her honestly.

"Unless the antibiotics start to work, the cold sponging is the only thing we can do to try and bring his temperature down," he gestured at the nurse who was carefully wringing out a cloth soaked in tepid water "and other than that we just have to wait and hope the fever will break."

Elizabeth nodded silently, her face tight as she stood and regarded the dreadful injuries that had come close to taking the life of her chief military officer – that still might if his fever could not be controlled. The shallow claw marks across John's rib cage stood out vividly, red and angry, against the unnatural paleness of his skin. A fresh dressing was taped securely over the cleaned and stitched wounds on his right upper arm and his left thigh was heavily bandaged. The sheets beneath him were damp with sweat and the nurse on night duty was carefully and methodically bathing his over-heated skin, soaking her cloth in a bowl of lukewarm water and wringing it out, wiping it across his chest, down his arms, along his legs; anything to try and leech the heat from his feverish body. He lay weak and shivering on the infirmary bed, covered only by a thin sheet, his chest and legs bare as the nurse worked to bring his temperature down.

Carson watched helplessly as Elizabeth visibly struggled to contain her fear. Though none of them wanted to admit it, there was a very real chance that they could lose him.

"What about his leg?" she asked in a small voice.

Ah yes, the leg. The injury that had started all this. The leg had been Carson's main concern as he had rushed the Colonel from the jumper bay straight into surgery. The wounds had been deep and messy and had bled profusely; Sheppard had needed multiple transfusions to replace the blood volume he had lost and Carson and his team had worked for hours to repair the damage, suturing torn flesh, repairing damaged veins and arteries, working to restore proper blood flow and mend damaged muscle. It had been hard work but they'd done well and Carson had been pleased with the results. He'd thought that was the worst of it, the broad-spectrum antibiotics almost an afterthought, a sensible precaution given what seemed like a low-grade fever and the possibility of infection when dealing with animal bites. Since then, as the Colonel's fever had worsened and progressed, they had tried every antibiotic they had and nothing seemed to touch the infection, nothing was able to stop Colonel Sheppard's rapidly rising temperature. If this went on much longer, the Colonel was at risk of seizures, of organ failure. Right now, the leg wound was the least of his worries.

"He came through surgery well," Carson reassured quietly. "He lost a lot of blood but we managed to repair the damage. He'll have a few nasty scars, that's for sure, and will need some physical therapy but he should regain his full range of motion without too much trouble."

They stood in silence, watching John toss and mutter in his fever dreams, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air - if he survives.

The quiet was broken by a rather deliberate cough from the other side of the privacy curtain. Carson sighed but was unable to prevent a small smile from curving his lips. "Yes, Rodney?" he called, without bothering to look.

"Oh. Uh, is it okay to.? Umm, can I come in?" The scientist's voice was quiet, far from his usual self-confident tone. Carson looked to Elizabeth and she nodded in understanding.

"I should go." Carson placed a hand on her shoulder and she smiled at him gratefully. "You'll keep me informed?"

"Of course, lass."

Rodney was hovering as Elizabeth stepped outside the privacy curtain, Carson close behind her. She knew the scientist had been spending almost as much time in the infirmary as Carson had. All of Sheppard's team were worried for him, and Teyla and Ronon had spent their share of hours sitting by the Colonel's bedside, but McKay in particular seemed to take Colonel Sheppard's illness personally, feeling in some way responsible because he had left him there in the forest, following Sheppard's orders to go for help.

Elizabeth had done her best to reassure Rodney, reiterating that if he and Teyla had not returned to Atlantis as ordered, Sheppard would almost certainly have died on the jungle planet, very probably the whole team in fact, but he refused to be consoled, the burden of self-imposed guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders. Sometimes it was too easy to forget that, unlike the rest of his team, Rodney was not a warrior, not a soldier. He had not lived with the constant threat of violence as had Ronon and Teyla, had never been trained in combat like Sheppard, had never expected to be faced with danger and injury and death so often and so intimately. Seeing his friend so badly injured and being forced to walk away from him, to leave him behind, even if doing so were to save his life, had been hard on McKay.

His eyes were shadowed as he nodded briefly to Elizabeth. "Any change?"

She shook her head and Carson watched Rodney deflate slightly, a spark of hope dying in his eyes.

"Can I see him?" McKay echoed Dr Weir's question of just moments before and Carson nodded gently, gesturing Rodney forward even as Elizabeth turned to leave, no doubt to return to her office and try to occupy her mind with paperwork until the dayshift started. She had barely taken a step when the nurse's voice, high and panicked, interrupted them.

"Dr Beckett!"

Carson spun quickly, Elizabeth and Rodney forgotten, and raced back to Sheppard's bedside, his heart dropping at the sight that greeted him. Colonel Sheppard was stiff as a board, every muscle taught with tension, his entire body trembling minutely. Time seemed to stand still for a minute and Carson was vaguely aware of Elizabeth and Rodney pushing through the privacy curtain behind him, a note of profound despair in McKay's voice as he breathed out, "Oh no…"

Then all was noise and chaos as Sheppard's body began to jerk violently, his muscles spasming helplessly, legs twitching, back arching, his arms pulling at the restraints. The bed rattled and shook with the ferocity of his movements as Carson grabbed hold of the shaking man's shoulders, trying to hold the Colonel still as he frantically shouted his orders to the nurse.

"He's seizing! Get me 5mg of Ativan, stat!"

* * *

_TBC…_


	7. Chapter 7

_Okay.. we're nearly done:)_

_Honest, I wasn't lying this time about this being the last chapter – it is the last chapter. But there's gonna be an epilogue! Heee heee. One last bit for you to enjoy._

_Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review this fic – please let me know your thoughts on the finale and I'll get the epilogue posted as soon as I can!

* * *

_

Dr Rodney McKay couldn't sleep.

Maybe it was the uncomfortable chair he was slumped in – he was sure Carson had deliberately picked out the hardest, most uncomfortable chairs for use in the infirmary so as to discourage lingerers. Or maybe he was over-tired – he known that happen before when he was wrapped up in a project and worked himself into the ground on it, ending up so exhausted that he came right through tiredness and out the other side, finding himself unable to sleep even though he wanted to. Or maybe it was simply restlessness – sometimes he just couldn't seem to get his brain to shut down, it just kept going over and over things endlessly, gnawing away at an issue.

Rodney swallowed, pushing down determinedly on the lump that was forming in his throat.

Or maybe it was the fact that his friend was lying still and pale in the hospital bed next to him, hanging on to life by his fingernails. Yeah. Maybe that was it.

He hadn't had more than a snatched hour or two of sleep since coming back from that awful, damned planet and, since Sheppard had come out of surgery, he'd hung around the infirmary so much that Carson had threatened to either throw him out or sedate him and put him in an infirmary bed himself.

Rodney had eventually resorted to a show of force, figuring safety in numbers and all that, and guessing that Beckett couldn't threaten to sedate or bounce he, Teyla _and_ Ronon. He glanced over at his team members; they didn't seem to share his difficulty in sleeping. Teyla somehow managed to make the infirmary chair look comfortable, her small frame curled up, legs tucked beneath her as she slept. Ronon, conversely, seemed to take up more space than should strictly be necessary, even for someone of his size. He was slouched in his chair, his shoulders resting on the back of the chair and the long length of his body stretched out, his legs taking up most of the limited floor space beside the infirmary bed. The Satedan's head was tipped backwards, dreadlocks dangling, and now and then he snored softly.

Rodney sighed, glancing at his watch. It's was 1:14am. Another long, sleepless night stretched out ahead of him.

The problem was, he couldn't stop remembering. He kept seeing the same images over and over in his head, going around and around in circles. The infirmary bed shaking and rattling as Sheppard seized helplessly; the pale, waxy hue to the Colonel's skin as he drifted in and out of feverish delerium; the sight of Carson cutting away Sheppard's pants leg on the floor of the jumper, revealing skin stained red with rivulets of blood; the grimace of pain on Sheppard's face as he looked up at him from the forest floor and _ordered_ him to leave, to head for the gate; watching Sheppard scream as Ronon pried the dead predator's jaws from his leg and, worst of all, the image that awoke him every time he slipped into an exhausted sleep; the memory of something leaping at him from the bushes, of Sheppard's shout and a sudden unexpected blow from behind. The knowledge that, once again, Colonel Sheppard had risked his own life to save Rodney's.

It was _his_ fault that Sheppard lay here in the infirmary, clinging to life by virtue, it seemed, of sheer stubbornness alone.

He knew that the others didn't see it that way, had tried to talk him round and tell him how it wasn't his fault, knew even that Sheppard himself – assuming he even survived – would not blame him, even as the Colonel hadn't thought twice about throwing himself in that thing's way in the forest. But McKay was a scientist; he dealt in logic - cold, hard facts. And the fact was that if it weren't for him Sheppard wouldn't be in this fix right now.

He'd felt bad enough seeing the mess Sheppard had been in when they'd finally rescued him and Ronon from the jungle planet but, after the surgery, Carson had been cautiously optimistic, pleased that they'd repaired the worst of the damage and quietly confident that the Colonel shouldn't suffer any long-lasting effects from his misadventure. Then Sheppard's fever had worsened. His temperature had risen.. and risen.. and risen. And Carson and all his voodoo had been helpless to stop it, unable to fight the infection, until finally Rodney had found himself standing frozen at the foot of the bed, watching in horror as Sheppard convulsed helplessly, Dr Beckett struggling to hold him down, shouting orders at the nurse. Although it had been mere moments, probably only seconds in fact, before the injection of Ativan had relaxed Sheppard's muscles, slowing and eventually stilling his jerky motions, it had felt like forever to Rodney.

And now, hours later, Sheppard lay there so still, so quiet. Rodney almost missed the convulsions, the restless, feverish movements. At least they had indicated that Sheppard was alive, that his body was trying to fight this thing. McKay was beginning to be afraid that Sheppard had given up.

McKay leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the still form of his friend. Sheppard looked… almost peaceful. His fever had finally broken just a couple of hours ago and the high, unnatural flush across his cheekbones had begun to fade, leaving his face as deathly pale as the rest of him. His temperature, according to Carson, was still higher than normal but no longer dangerously so. He looked as though he were simply asleep, his lashes a dark smudge against his cheeks, his breathing deep and even. The only question now was, would he wake up?

Privately, Rodney would admit to himself that Beckett was a good doctor. Okay, probably a great doctor. But he was no miracle worker and the Scot had been regretfully realistic about the Colonel's chances. The seizure had been a bad thing. Hell, Rodney knew enough about medicine to know that, even without having seen the full, shocking horror of it first-hand. It meant that the Colonel's brain had over-heated, the fever and infection wreaking havoc throughout his body. There was simply no way to know what, if any, damage the seizure had caused. Not until the Colonel woke up. _If_ he woke up. Yet again, they were left to play the waiting game.

Rodney couldn't prevent another sigh escaping him. He was exhausted, utterly drained of energy. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes, feeling a yawn pull at his jaw. His eyes ached; they felt gritty and dry. He sat in his uncomfortable chair and watched Sheppard sleep. The Colonel's rebellious shock of dark hair was even more of a mess than usual, lying flat in some places and sticking up in others, stiff with the sweat of his raging fever. Once his high temperature had finally dropped the nurses had washed the sweat from his skin and dressed him in a hospital gown. A ghost of a smile twitched at McKay's lips as he thought, "Sheppard's gonna _love_ that when he wakes up.."

And then his face fell, that lump rising in his throat again as reality hit him hard.

"If he wakes up," McKay thought.

"Please wake up," he whispered.

* * *

His first awareness was of sound; a low, repeated rumbling sound. It sounded close. The noise nagged at him, hovering on the edge of his consciousness, just loud enough to distract him, to prevent him from slipping back into the comforting darkness. Sensation came back slowly; he felt heavy and.. somehow weak. His muscles felt achy and tired, like after a really long, hard run. He stirred restlessly and sharp pain flared in his leg, drawing a gasp from his lips. 

Another sound. A voice. "Sheppard?"

He breathed slowly, carefully, letting the pain ebb and fade. His head felt incredibly heavy. He wanted to sleep. He wanted the darkness back..

"Sheppard? Can you hear me?"

Familiar voice. He knew that voice.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

The voice sounded… worried? No, not worried. Scared.

It was so tempting to just wrap himself up in the darkness, let it carry him away where there was no pain and nothing to be scared about.

No. He couldn't do that. He knew that voice.. and he couldn't let the darkness take him while the fear trembled in that familiar voice. He swallowed thickly, his mouth feeling dry and sticky.

"Carson! I think he's waking up!"

Nnngh. He grimaced. Loud. Too loud.

Awareness of his surroundings filtered in slowly as he drifted in the darkness, trying to focus his wandering thoughts in a head that felt about three sizes too big. There was an odd smell in the air, an antiseptic, sterile smell and he dredged up the word "infirmary" from somewhere in his memory. The word seemed comforting somehow.. made him feel.. safe. He became aware of a presence nearby, someone leaning over him, and another voice spoke.

"Colonel Sheppard? Can you hear me, son?"

He knew that voice, familiar yet odd.. the words rising and falling almost musically.

"Can you open your eyes for me, Colonel?"

He was so tired. He felt utterly exhausted, drained of energy. He tried to open his eyes, really tried, and thought he felt his lids tremble for a minute.

"Oh god, I knew it. He's a vegetable!"

"Rodney!" The chiding tone in the voice was clear and suddenly he could put a name to those lilting tones. Carson. A musical, lilting name to match the voice.

"Give him time, he's been through a lot.."

Been through a lot? Been through what? He tried to ask but no sound came out, his throat working spasmodically. The darkness was slipping away from him now as he struggled for comprehension.

Names. Memories. Carson. Rodney. Ronon… Ronon.. for a moment he could hear again the low, rumbling, growling sound from nearby and panic flooded through him, adrenalin spiking, and his eyes flew open.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

Faces. Faces looming over him. He felt trapped, panicked, his breath stuttering in his throat.

"It's alright, Colonel. You're in the infirmary, you're safe now.."

He turned his head, aching muscles protesting, and tried to see past the faces, tried to make sense of his surroundings. His chest began to burn, his lungs unable to pull in enough air.

"Carson! He doesn't _recognise_ us!"

There was despair in that voice now, along with fear, and that more than anything pulled John back to himself, focused his mind.

"Hush, Rodney!" Carson's voice was sharp now, a tone that brooked no disagreement.

"Colonel, I need to you to calm down." Gentle again now, calm and reassuring, hands firm on his shoulders. "That's it, just breathe now. You're safe on Atlantis. Everybody's safe.."

Atlantis. He focused on Carson's kindly, blue eyes as he felt the panic ease. He was on Atlantis. They were safe on Atlantis.. a vague memory surfaced of impossibly bright blue skies and the hum of a descending jumper. He grimaced, screwing his eyes shut as he tried to chase the elusive memory down. Ronon.. Ronon standing over him.. shooting.. shooting at.. Ngh. Jungle. Jungle planet. Teeth. Predators. He was overwhelmed by a flood of memories, unravelling backwards to the sudden stillness of the jungle and the knowledge that Rodney was in danger.

Rodney!

His eyes flew open to find that familiar face looming over him with naked fear in those blue eyes. He swallowed, tried to speak, but nothing came out.

"Here, Colonel.." Carson's voice and then something deliciously cold and wet slid between his lips. Ice chip. He sucked, savouring the cool taste of liquid running down his throat.

"Rodney," his voice was nothing more than a hoarse croak but the effect it had was astounding. McKay's face cleared, relief etched on every feature as he visibly sagged.

"Oh god, Colonel. Don't _do_ that to me! I thought you'd swiss-cheesed your brain for good this time!"

"Rodney!" The expected reproof came not from Beckett this time but from Teyla, her reproving frown clearing into a welcoming smile as she turned her gaze to Sheppard, stepping up to stand next to Carson. "It is good to see you back with us, Colonel."

He answered with a woozy smile of his own; the surge of adrenalin had passed, leaving him even more tired than before. He hadn't actually thought that was possible.

"How are you feeling, Colonel?" Carson was digging in his lab-coat pocket and Sheppard had the distinct feeling that a penlight would be heading in his direction very shortly.

"Where's Ronon?" he rasped, not so subtly ignoring Carson's enquiry.

"Here." The Satedan rose into view as he unfolded himself slowly from his chair, stepping forward to loom over the bed.

Sheppard's eyelids were beginning to droop and it was all he could do to focus on the tall ex-Runner.

He gave Ronon a tired grin. "I owe you one." Ronon simply nodded, the merest hint of a smile on his usually serious face.

Sheppard was feeling drowsy enough that he didn't object when Carson pried open his eyelids and did his penlight thing. As he owlishly blinked away the bright after-image he was aware of the four of them hovering around his bed, a palpable sense of relief in the air. It occurred to him to wonder how long he'd been in the infirmary, and why they seemed so worried, but talking required energy and he was fresh out. His eyes slid closed.

"Is he okay?" There was still that undercurrent of panic in McKay's voice.

"He'll be fine. He's just exhausted, the fever was very hard on his body."

Fever?

He had a vague memory of feeling cold, very cold. Don't fevers make you hot?

"How long's he gonna sleep for?" Ronon's deep, rumbling voice.

He remembered feeling the vibration of the Satedan's voice through his chest as he swung upside down, his fingers trailing in the cool water of the river, the shrill screams of the predators echoing in the hot jungle air.

Hunh. With an effort he forced his eyes open. They were standing around the bed still, talking across him, talking about him.

"Growling.."

They turned to look at him, varying expressions of bemusement on their faces.

"Excuse me?" McKay's tone clearly said he thought Sheppard had lost it.

"Something woke me up. Growling." He was too tired to explain properly. "Animals. Growling…"

He saw comprehension dawn on McKay's face before drowsiness weighted his eyelids. His head felt heavy.

"No growling here, Colonel," there was an odd tremor to McKay's voice, mixed with a gentleness that was unusual for the scientist. "The predators are gone and we're all safe on Atlantis. You can sleep as long as you want."

Sheppard smiled sleepily at that, letting the warm darkness wrap around him, knowing his friends would be waiting when he awoke again.

"What did he mean by growling? Was he dreaming?"

There was a hint of the old familiar McKay in the sharpness of Rodney's tone and Sheppard drifted off to sleep with a smile on his lips, McKay's words following him down into darkness.

"Ronon, you _snore_!"

* * *

_Almost done…._


	8. Epilogue

_Finally, it is finished! Hurrah!_

_I wanted to do a little epilogue on this fic to deal with both Sheppard's physical recovery and also McKay's feelings of guilt over Sheppard saving his life – again. So here it is._

_Hope you like it and hope you enjoyed the fic – please do leave me some feedback and let me know your thoughts.

* * *

_

John Sheppard had never been quite so grateful for having such a strong natural ATA gene. The doors to the lab slid open for him with a thought and he carefully swung his way into the room, manoeuvring himself around the doorframe with care. Crutches were a pain in the ass and he'd very quickly learnt his lesson about how easy it was to catch them on something and get all tangled up. He'd nearly fallen twice just getting out of the infirmary before he'd finally gotten the hang of the damn things. Being able to open doors without using his hands at least made getting around on Atlantis that little bit easier.

He found McKay exactly where he'd expected to find him – hunched over a computer in the lab, a frown of concentration on his face, completely wrapped up in some project or another. So absorbed was he that he didn't appear to notice John's somewhat less than stealthy approach at all.

"Hey, Rodney."

"Holy shi.." McKay bit off a curse as he literally jumped in his seat, turning to fix John with a glare of exasperation.

"Don't you know better than to sneak up on people when they're working? Just because _you're_ off-duty for the next few weeks doesn't mean the rest of us are and I have some very important…"

McKay's tirade petered out in mid-sentence as his brain finally seemed to catch up with his mouth and he changed the subject abruptly, his face creasing into a frown of concern as he took in the crutches and John's lack of infirmary scrubs.

"Hey, what are you doing out of the infirmary? Did Carson discharge you? Does he know you're wandering around the city on that leg?"

John interrupted the barrage of questions with practised ease, an edge of sarcasm in his voice, "No Rodney, I snuck out of the infirmary, stopped to steal some crutches on the way, and ran away before Carson could catch me."

"Oh." Something flitted across McKay's face, an emotion that John couldn't quite pin down, before the familiar expression of impatience returned.

"Well, I wouldn't put it past you," he muttered grumpily, turning back to the computer. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm really very busy.."

It was a pretty obvious attempt at dismissal. John chose to ignore it.

He sighed. "Alright, Rodney, spit it out. What's up with you?"

There was an edge to McKay's voice, something more than the scientist's usual condescending tone. "Nothing is _up_ with me, Colonel, I just happen to be very busy.."

"Oh come on, Rodney!" John interrupted. "Zelenka says you've been like a bear with a sore head this past week.." He saw McKay about to comment and forestalled him.

"More so than usual.." he qualified with a grin, "and you haven't been by the infirmary for days. Overnight you go from Carson practically having to force you to leave to hiding away in your lab.."

"I am not hiding!" There was a flash of anger in McKay's eyes before he stamped down on it and turned back to his computer, avoiding John's gaze.

"Anyway," he muttered quietly, "how would you know? You've been asleep most of the time."

John's face was serious now as he spoke to the back of McKay's head. "Yeah, well.. pain meds'll do that for you," he admitted softly. He sighed again, instinctively lifting a hand to rub at his eyes, and swore under his breath as his balance shifted, the crutch nearly sliding out from under him before he managed to grab ahold of it again.

He shifted uncomfortably in his precarious stance, aware of McKay watching him out of the corner of his eye, his body tensed as though to.. to what? To catch him if he fell?

"Is that what this is all about, Rodney?"

The scientist wouldn't meet his gaze, staring instead with a fixed determination at his computer screen, so Sheppard took a guess and pushed a bit harder. "This wasn't your fault, Rodney."

McKay's turned around at that, anger evident on his face, and for an instant John saw naked emotion in his friend's eyes; anger yes, but also fear and despair and.. guilt.

"Of course it wasn't my fault!" The scientist spat. "I didn't ask that damn thing to bite you, did I? Or for it's little friends to hunt you down?"

He turned back to his computer, the slight break in his voice not entirely masked by the tone of disdain that John had come to know as one of Rodney's favourite defence mechanisms.

"If it's anyone's fault, it's yours," he continued to rant, stabbing angrily at the keyboard. "Always have to be the hero, don't you? Throw yourself in front of the speeding bullet, risk your life to save everyone. Lt Colonel Expendable." John was shocked at the level of bitterness in McKay's voice.

"I'm still alive, Rodney," he pointed out gently.

"Yeah, well, no thanks to me!"

McKay froze and it was obvious he hadn't meant for that to slip out.

"Rodney.."

Before John could think up a suitable response, McKay rose abruptly from his seat, his face flaming crimson, clearly intent on running out on the conversation. He shoved back his stool as he stood and the metal leg clipped the edge of Sheppard's crutch, pushing it sideways. Unprepared for the sudden change in his balance, John could not redistribute his weight quickly enough and the crutch slipped, shooting out from under him before he could stop it.

Bizarrely, time seemed to both slow down and speed up at once. He was acutely aware of the crutch slipping, of his balance shifting, but everything seemed to move in slow motion and he couldn't keep hold of the crutch, couldn't stop himself from falling. And then time seemed to shoot forward and the next thing he knew he was on his back on the floor, gasping for breath, hot pain radiating outwards from his leg, with McKay hovering over him anxiously, a look of terror on his face.

"Oh my god! Colonel Sheppard, are you okay?"

John focused on the ceiling beyond Rodney and struggled to draw in a breath. God, his leg felt like it was on fire. Must have landed on it when he went down.

"Oh, god. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to… I'll get Beckett.."

"Mnno.." He forced the word out through gritted teeth, halting Rodney in his reach for his radio earpiece. "I'm good."

Rodney's expression was, quite frankly, disbelieving. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah." He spoke haltingly, fitting the words in between his gasps for air. "Just.. winded. Knocked the… breath out.. of me."

Some of the bitterness had crept back into McKay's expression and his mouth twisted as he knelt on the floor beside Sheppard. "Still the selfless hero, eh?"

John frowned. He'd had about enough of this and pain was seriously fraying his patience right now. He sucked in a breath and swallowed back the pain.

"McKay, whether you like it or not, it is my _job_ to protect the members of this expedition. That goes for you, Elizabeth, Carson, Lorne, Zelenka.. hell, even Kavanaugh. _Everyone_. You understand me?" His voice was tight, pain and frustration twisting at his gut. He needed to make Rodney understand.

"But if it hadn't been for me.."

"Then that thing would have attacked someone else.. Ronon or Teyla, or me." He looked up at McKay, seeing the misery behind the walls of sarcasm and anger. "Come on, McKay – you saw the teeth on that thing. If I hadn't pushed you clear it probably would have killed you with one bite and then come back for the rest of us too. I would have done the same thing if it had gone for Teyla or Ronon."

Rodney still glared at him but some of the anger had faded from his eyes.

"You nearly died," he said, accusingly.

"I know. I'm sorry. Can't promise it won't happen again though.."

McKay's lips pressed together in exasperation but John could have sworn he saw the corner of his mouth trying to twitch upwards into a smile.

"You're an idiot."

"Compared to you, McKay, everyone's an idiot." The pain in his leg was beginning to ease down to a dull throb now and John was starting to feel pretty stupid lying here on the floor having this conversation.

"Hah. Flattery will get you nowhere, Colonel." McKay's tone was dismissive, as condescending as ever, but a certain smugness told John that he was secretly pleased by the compliment.

"Well, how about getting me off the floor?"

"Huh, what? Oh, right." McKay had the grace to look embarrassed as he realised belatedly that John couldn't get up on his own. John brushed away his concern as he carefully levered himself into a sitting position, grimacing a little at the still-throbbing pain in his leg as he used his hands to carefully position the limb so that, with Rodney's help, he could struggle gingerly to his feet; or, more accurately, foot. He swayed for a moment, trying to balance on one leg, and felt Rodney's grip on his arm tighten before the scientist hooked the errant stool closer with his foot and helped John lower himself onto it. He caught Rodney looking suspiciously at him and wondered if he looked quite as pale and wobbly as he felt.

"Are you sure you don't want me to call Carson?"

Well, that answered that question. He sighed.

"I'm good. I just need my crutches."

McKay huffed in exasperation but rescued the abandoned crutches from the floor and handed them back to Sheppard. The scientist still looked kinda shaken but some of the tension had eased from his shoulders and Sheppard figured they were okay again.

He tested the water. "You too busy for a coffee?"

"What?"

"Well," John grinned as he levered himself slowly to his feet, resting his weight carefully on the crutches, "I've been living off nothing but infirmary food for the past week so I figure a trip to the mess hall wouldn't go amiss right about now."

"Really? I like infirmary food." McKay commented, hovering somewhat nervously as Sheppard swung himself towards the door.

"Great. Next time, you can have my infirmary food and bring me your meals from the mess hall instead." The door slid open smoothly at his thought.

"What do you _mean_, next time?" Rodney's voice was exasperated, rising rapidly in pitch as he followed John out into the corridor.

"Well, you know, next time I have to save your life.." John could tell from the splutter of indignation that McKay knew full well that he was being teased but, as ever, the scientist simply couldn't resist being goaded.

"I don't recall _asking_ you to shove me face-first into the undergrowth, Colonel. I suppose I should be thankful you didn't tip me into a patch of the local equivalent of poison ivy.."

"Well, if you didn't keep getting yourself into trouble all the time…"

"Well, if you didn't keep trying to play the hero all the time…"

Sheppard grinned. "Let's just say that saving your life is getting to be a bad habit, McKay."

* * *

_Fin…_


End file.
